In his sprawling Delhi mansion, The Man paced his dimly lit study, the city's distant hum muffled by thick curtains. His bearded face was a mask of cold fury, his sharp eyes glinting under the low chandelier. The three-month ultimatum from the committee weighed on him like chains, but it fueled his resolve. "The God of Darkness thinks he's untouchable," he muttered, slamming a fist on his mahogany desk. Vikrant, his wiry assistant, stood nervously in the corner, tablet in hand.
"Sir?" Vikrant ventured, his voice tentative. "The task force is still chasing shadows. Rathore's digging deeper—your leaks aren't slowing him."
The Man spun, his voice a hiss. "Rathore's a flea. The God is the plague. My traps have failed—Malhotra, the soldiers, the frames. He's stronger than I thought, slipping every noose. No more games. This time, I kill him." He straightened, his chaotic heart thrumming with anticipation. "But first, I test if others can do it. If not, I confront him myself. Call the jet. We're going to Satpura."
Vikrant's eyes widened. "The Range? The force?"
The Man nodded, his lips curling into a predatory smile. "My secret army. Generations of loyalty, trained in silence. They'll lure him, ambush him, end him. If they fail, I step in—with Sound's full fury."
The plan had been years in the making, a masterpiece of deception and preparation. The Man's contractual force—people bound by his Sound contracts, their minds tuned to his will—lived in hidden villages, insulated from the world. Three such enclaves existed: one in the dense jungles of Kerala's Western Ghats, another in Hyderabad's Nallamala Hills, and the crown jewel in Madhya Pradesh's Satpura Range. These were small, unassuming villages—farmers tilling soil, children playing, elders storytelling—but every soul was contracted, their loyalties vibrating to The Man's frequency. They provided cover, food, and recruits, blending seamlessly with the wild.
The Satpura village was the strongest: nestled in rugged terrain of sandstone peaks, deep ravines, and moist deciduous forests, it hid a secret. A concealed tunnel in the mountain led to an underground complex—a vast "cube" of caverns expanded over decades into a fortified facility. Carved from rock, soundproofed with natural echoes muffled by The Man's power, it housed offices, living quarters, and training arenas. Here, 1000 elite fighters—men and women honed through generations—lived and drilled. They trained in muffled silence: guns with suppressors, martial arts in padded halls, tactics in simulated jungles. Loyal bloodlines, contracted at birth, they were ghosts—undetectable to shadows, their vibrations tuned to evade Darkness's grasp.
Hours later, the private jet touched down in a remote airstrip near Pachmarhi, the Satpura's heart. Disguised as a hiker, The Man trekked to the village, blending with locals—farmers in simple kurtas, women carrying water, children herding goats. But their eyes held a knowing glint, contracted loyalty humming like a silent chord.
At the mountain's base, hidden by foliage, a villager nodded subtly, leading him to the secret tunnel. Inside, the "cube" unfolded: vast caverns lit by dim LEDs, air cool and muffled. Living spaces branched off—dorms, kitchens, armories stocked with suppressed rifles, blades, tech. Training arenas echoed faintly with grunts—fighters sparring in muay thai, jiu-jitsu, marksmanship drills. Sound waves absorbed by rock and The Man's lingering power, no echo escaped.
In the central office, a spartan room with maps and monitors, waited Rajan—the head, a grizzled man in his fifties, muscles corded from years of command. His eyes sharpened as The Man entered. "Master," Rajan said, bowing slightly. "It's been too long. The force is ready, trained to perfection."
The Man nodded, seating himself. "Good, Rajan. Generations of your blood have served me well. The villages provide, the cube trains. But this mission… it's different. It involves many—perhaps half your number."
Rajan's brow furrowed. "Half? For what threat, Master?"
The Man leaned forward, his voice a low vibration that hummed through the room. "The God of Darkness. He's unraveled my traps, killed my puppets. He's no ordinary foe, stronger than anticipated. We lure him here, to Satpura. A minister will leak 'my location' through channels he trusts. When he comes, ambush: snipers on the ridges, teams in the ravines, disorientation pulses from our Sound tech. Trap him in the tunnel if he breaches. Kill him with overwhelming force."
Rajan's eyes gleamed with loyalty. "And if he survives? He's slipped before."
The Man's smile was cold. "Then I confront him myself. My Sound will shatter his shadows, his mind. But first, test if you can end him. Prepare your best—scouts, assassins, the elite. Blend with the villagers if needed. This is top-notch: years of your training, my planning. He dies here."
Rajan stood, fist to chest. "It will be done, Master. The force lives for this."
The Man rose, his chaotic heart thrumming. "Good. Mobilize. The God falls in Satpura." As he exited the cube, the muffled sounds of preparation began—orders whispered, weapons checked. The trap was set, a symphony of death waiting for its conductor.